


Sasquatch Days

by LilydaleXF



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s11e04 The Lost Art Of Forehead Sweat, F/M, MSR, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:04:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilydaleXF/pseuds/LilydaleXF
Summary: Mulder tells Scully about the time he found Sasquatch footprints in the mud. A pre-ep for "The Lost Art of Forehead Sweat" while also being a post-ep.





	Sasquatch Days

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists in no small part because of Anjou's encouragement and beta.

_A First Day_

"And that's how I succeeded in casting a Sasquatch print in mud at a riverbank, in the dark, on land restricted from the public, with that broken tree branch sticking into my shoulder. It left a scar, Scully. I swear you can still see the mark." He twists in his desk chair, swiveling one shoulder in her direction as if she could see through his suit jacket and straight through to proof of the experience.

"And you would've seen Sasquatch too," she replies, "had the branch not chosen that exact moment to crack under the wind and slap you in the back and make you look down at the muddy bank instead."

"I did almost see him, Scully, I did," he says as his body returns to normal posture and one hand lands softly on the FBI office desk in emphasis.

"I believe you, Mulder."

"Scullll-llyyyy," he drones as his eyes nearly roll out of his head.

She smirks and mimics back his tone with a "Whaaaa-aaaaat?"

"You do not in any way believe me," he says as he pulls the straw out of his drink and twirls it in her general direction. "You just want this conversation to end."

Scully's smirk does not disappear and, if his observational skills are at least as attuned as they were back in British Columbia along the river, he thinks he sees it intensify even as her mouth remains still. As he expressed doubt at her spoken words her eyes developed a twinkle, which he does not dare mention aloud. Telling Sasquatch stories, yes. Commentary on Scully's eyes beaming into his, no.

In lieu of words, Mulder wills his eyes to mirror hers. It's difficult, it occurs to him, because he suspects that his eyes have been sparking since she walked into the X-Files office however many, many minutes ago and handed him something sweet in a glass she procured out of seemingly nowhere, sunk into the chair opposite his desk, and indulgently listened to him launch into a talk about cryptozoological discovery because he'd just seen an obviously faked footprint photo online.

"I wasn't aware we were having a conversation," she announces. "I'm just listening."

"So you want me to stop talking is what you're saying?"

"I didn't say that."

"Right, as it's been firmly established that you are not saying anything." He doesn't know why he's adopted a snippy attitude all of a sudden. It's become automatic to balk, to push back, to assume a fight, he thinks, even though it's her. It's her, it's her. It's her who has given innumerable reasons during their partnership for him to not only take her silence as attentiveness but as time of thoughtful consideration. Even when she thinks he's nuts. Which is often. Which is probably now.

"I was listening, Mulder, to your extremely detailed and at times unbelievable story that sounded like it came from a book, not spur of the moment from your head."

"Hmm, maybe I should write a book. _A Guide To Squatchin'_ by Fox Mulder."

"No." She shakes her head back and forth in emphasis.

"No?" He feels a bit stupid for being disappointed when he'd never in his life thought about writing a book.

"No. It wouldn't have your voice. And I don't think your, shall we say, enthusiasm, could be properly captured by the written word."

He smiles a silent chuckle.

"And that title is terrible," she adds.

"Guess I'll have to stay stuck in the basement then, not writing best sellers." He finally returns the straw to his glass and slowly swirls it around.

"Guess so," she says as her eyes trail down from his face to the movement of his hand. Her head tilts slightly to the side, which he recognizes as a tell of that thoughtful consideration of hers. He waits.

Her head rises shortly thereafter in unison with her settling down a little farther in the chair. Her soft eyes find his as she says, "Tell me another story, Mulder."

Mere seconds pass before he mentally unshelves a story for her as this random weekday afternoon becomes neurologically etched in a volume he keeps filed under "S."

* * * * * *

_A Second Day_

An annoyed sigh is imbued in Scully's words as she says, "Of course I didn't get the tires stuck in the mud on purpose. You think I want to stay any longer than necessary at this fourth rate, mosquito-ridden, mildew-scented abomination of a motor court motel? After your informant witness never even showed up?"

"Um, no," Mulder replies in quiet monotone.

"Triple A better get here as fast as they said they would to rescue this Lariat heap," she says with enough attitude to perhaps jar the car out of being stuck.

Her comment sparks a short span of quiet in the car. Triple A isn't supposed to arrive for at least another 10 minutes.

It's an awkward situation, and he wants to do something to try to make the wait less of whatever it is right now, so he fills the void by saying, "This reminds me of the time I got stuck in the mud when I found a Sasquatch footprint. It was a dank, dark night in the Canadian wilderness, and--"

"Shut it, Mulder."

"But--"

"I've heard it before. Not now."

He pauses but then risks saying, "You know, G-woman, you can be a real stick in the mud sometimes."

She swiftly flips her head to look at him dead on, and her squinted eyes bear into him with silent force. He doesn't say anything else until they are barreling down the interstate, but he smiles. Years later she remembered his story, and he smiles.

* * * * * *

_A Third Day_

It is too soon after he awoke for Mulder to be entirely sure where he is other than "Nevada, or maybe California," but he hopes he likes it here because it seems he may never get to leave. He left his tent and discovered the hard way that it must have rained overnight since his shoe is now buried in mud that used to be dirt. The mud made a most undignified sound as it oozed in a quick pop over his whole foot with only one end of one shoelace peeking out of the mess. He looks up to the sky and rolls his eyes. He so rarely has nice trips to the forest. He should have known better than to come here.

Here, wherever here is.

He's still able to count the time he's been gone from Scully and William in days, but he expects that will involuntarily turn into a count of weeks or months soon enough as the number of days rises too high. Too high to count, too high to bear, it's nearly all the same to him since it boils down to the fact that he is Away.

He tilts his head down as he ponders the current state of his foot. He tugs in a few quick up and down movements, but the jerking only results in his knee bending. His foot, it seems, is well cast in the ground.

"Hey, little baby," he whispers aloud, "want to hear about the time I found Sasquatch?" _You didn't find him, only his alleged muddy footprint_ , he hears Scully autocorrect since in his imagined scenario they are all three ensconced in her warm apartment on her clean, puffy bed. She is right, of course, but William shouldn't be told the end of the story before it begins. His insides contract, and he feels a desperate hope that she will tell William his stories.

While his foot continues to be in the mud, his heart beats elsewhere. He thinks, _I really need to get home_.

* * * * * *

_A Fourth Day_

After they're done not eating any red gelatin dessert shaped like a foot and are still sitting on the living room couch, Scully flicks out her chin to point at something across the room. She asks, "What is that thing?"

"I'm afraid that question could be directed at any number of things over there."

She tips her head in silent agreement. "That big thing that looks like a hedge. It kind of looks like clothes." Her eyes trail up to his with a high degree of reserved exasperation and impending reluctant acceptance.

 _She's right_ , he thinks as he looks at it from a distance. It really does look like a hedge. That was some well spent money.

"It's my Squatchin' outfit!" he proudly announces.

"Oh dear God," she mutters even as she had to have known that answer was coming. "You went out of the house wearing that thing?"

"Well, Scully, nobody could see me. Camouflage!"

"Oh, Mulder," she murmurs in a quiet despondent tone he knows well and that makes his smile grow broader out of the comfort of familiarity. He's not afraid to admit, only to himself from now until probably forever, that part of the reason he bought the suit was to someday get her reaction to it.

"What else is one supposed to wear? That suit is _perfection_ , Scully."

"Perfection," he barely hears her grumble incredulously under her breath before she speaks more normally and says, "Couldn't you have worn whatever you wore that other time? Up in Canada?"

"Wait," he says with confusion. "You remember that? Me telling you about that?"

"Of course. I never forgot, Mulder," she says as she swats playfully at him. Her fingertips brush his bare forearm.

"Oh," he says rather stupidly.

"My mind may be getting older and wearier as time passes by," she continues in a more serious tone than before, "but I do remember many things about you, Mulder, many things that you have said."

"Oh," he repeats, but this time with realized affection. Nevertheless, his brows furrow.

She rests her hand on his forearm.

"How can I be sure, Scully? Sure that it really happened? I know there's the footprint mold, and I know I seem to remember being up in British Columbia on a humanoid hunt, but how can I really know if the memory is real?"

"I told you on the phone earlier that I remembered the story too."

"It could've been both of us misremembering. The Mandela Effect isn't always necessarily singular. 'Folie à deux' is a madness shared by two."

"No, Mulder." She shakes her head in emphasis. "No. We can't let all of this get to us, get us to discount or doubt everything we think we remember."

He shrugs unconvinced.

"I mean, Goop-O A-B-C is real after all. It's right here on this table."

"What are we going to do with all of that?"

She ignores his unhelpful ancillary question and instead says, "I have more proof." She takes her hand off his arm and moves it to the hem of his t-shirt as she declares, "Off." He has no time to respond before both her hands are working to pull up his shirt.

Despite his rabid instinct to allow undress in her presence, he resists, wiggling around to cause tangling and trouble. She's surprised him.

Their hands bat quickly at each other and his shirt keeps flopping up and down his stomach. Suddenly she removes her hands from his person in an admit of defeat. Or so he thinks until she leans in close, her lips brushing his ear when she whispers, "Let me touch you, Mulder."

"Oh," he whimpers, "that is not playing fair."

Fair or not, it's effective, and his shirt is tossed aside in short order. He smiles shyly at her, but he's not sure she sees it before she's pushing him to the side. "What are you--" he barely has time to say before she's looking at his back full on and poking him in the shoulder.

"It's here," she whispers. "Your scar, it's here."

"My tree branch scar," he says with a dawn of understanding.

"Yes."

The pressure of her finger is replaced by the soft pillow of her cheek resting on his back. "I told you it was real, Mulder."

"Have I ever told you that I appreciate your investigative methods, Scully?"

"No," she lies. "Tell me now."

He starts to tell her, but his voice soon fades by the mutual pressing of lips, and the night becomes another kind of memory. They're home together, and it feels very real.


End file.
